


channeling angels in the new age now

by sunflashes



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: M/M, glitterchicken, tagged the ship twice just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-01 23:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4038046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflashes/pseuds/sunflashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Violet, honey, listen to me.” Katya slings an arm around Violet’s waist. “She’s gonna break your heart but it’s gonna be beautiful.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	channeling angels in the new age now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donotforgetme24601](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donotforgetme24601/gifts).



> title from lana del rey's young and beautiful. 
> 
> you can find me in [my trashcan](http://www.newyorkeyeschicagothighs.tumblr.com) and request rpdr pairings and scenarios there as well.

“I don’t find you that shady,” Fame kicks his legs up into Violet’s lap as they sit on one of the pink vinyl couches in the workroom, waiting for their daily missive from the gospel of RuPaul.

“Um, thanks?”

“You know what I mean, though,” Fame dips his head, practiced and model-enticing, eyes lit from behind by that brand confidence. Violet tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“They all think I’m a bitch, I get it, I don’t need you to spell it out for me.” Violet looks away, eyes flicking sharply out of the conversation.

“They can’t handle what you’re serving.” Fame says, oddly concisely, brushing his foot up Violet’s side. He pushes himself up from the couch and saunters off to check his reflection in the wall mirror, but Violet stays rooted. He watches Fame’s reflection as he presses his deft thumbs to the hollows of his cheeks, tracing the contour lines like he’s squeezing a ripe fruit. Violet wonders what Fame isn’t saying when he runs his mouth.

\---

“I’m struggling,” says Fame and that can’t be right. In and out of drag, he looks like whatever the new “million bucks” is, as _only a million_ is passé and Miss Fame, if she was bottled and sold, would be the kind of luxury item that doesn’t even have a price tag on it. Priceless, Violet thinks, the word wrapped in seaweed layers of irony beneath his tongue.

“You’re going to turn it out, stop worrying.” Violet swipes a bloom of bruise-purple eyeshadow on.

“I know my look isn’t the problem, I just wonder if they want something I can’t give them.” Fame slicks concealer under his eyes, something Violet never would have thought he’d need. If asked, he’d claim it was foundation. Violet knows this. He is very vain, but very frank.

“Is the most beautiful girl in the room complaining about being just a pretty face again?” Trixie saunters past in a pastel gown, ghosting a hand over Fame’s shoulder in encouragement despite his words, and Violet sees Fame dip his head, soft and fawn-sad.

“That’s not what the fuck it is.” Violet snaps, and regrets it instantly. In a room full of drag queens, an outburst from one former rival in defense of another is sure to attract attention.

“My B, my B.” Trixie sits a few chairs down and cracks open his makeup case, smiling to himself. 

\---

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Katya asks, voice tremulous. Fame melts.

“Of course, what’s going on, honey?”

Katya—sweet, funny Katya—coughs up this oil slick of a story about burnt, fried sinuses and veins scraped raw and Fame reaches out on instinct. Fame grabs Katya’s hot hand, holds, puts his other hand on Katya’s leg, fingers digging divots, anchoring.

“You know what it’s like,” Katya gasps out, hand finding it’s way to Fame’s shoulder.

“I do,” Fame says, eyes welling, and it’s enough. It’s catharsis for both of them, wiry arms clasping tight around each other, tears muffled in each other’s shoulders and necks.

Fame wipes his eyes and follows Katya’s lead of making a joke to pull them out of their bleary introspection.

Violet, even from across the room, feels like he’s witnessed something sacred, private, and today he does not ask Fame to cinch him into his corset of choice.

\---

“You’re perfect,” Fame tells Violet, smile blooming uncontrollably, as he places the finishing touch on Violet’s J.Lo look crafted largely from green paper, and Violet says nothing. He understands now why he snapped at Trixie.

“Can I talk to you,” it’s not a question when he mirror’s Katya’s own actions back to him, bursting the door of the soundstage open and interrupting her mid-cigarette. This is off-camera. It has to be.

“Christ,” Katya coughs, fully startled. “Sure, let me change my underwear first, because I pissed myself just now.”

“Sorry,” Violet isn’t.

“What’s your problem, doll?” Katya deepens his voice, adding a little lifelong-smoker/Jewish grandmother to the mix.

Violet is fleetingly very aware of the fact that this is a bad fucking idea. Katya takes a drag.

“I know that I’m like, a bitch or whatever, y’all have made that clear—“

Katya’s Concerned Mom Face is strong but Violet presses on.

“—But like I have real feelings and honestly they’re _real stupid_ because, fuck, I feel so bad for Miss Fame?”

“Is that a question?” Katya is puzzled. “I mean, so do I, but like, what’s wrong with that?”

Violet makes an exasperated noise in the back of his throat and looks put out that he even has to clarify.

“Fame’s my friend, like she’s my only real friend here and I don’t like it when people pick on her.”

Katya laughs and takes another drag of her mostly-smoked cigarette.

“What they do to her doesn’t hold a candle to what they do to you, though.”

“Yeah, and it still gets to me more. Do you see like, where I’m going with this.”

“Oh.” Katya shakes his head. “OH.” His mouth falls open. “Oh my god. You nasty, nasty individual.” Katya grins, laughs, shoves at Violet playfully.

“Shut up, oh my god. This was such a mistake, oh my godddd.” Violet whines.

“Violet, honey, listen to me.” Katya slings an arm around Violet’s waist. “She’s gonna break your heart but it’s gonna be beautiful.”

“I know.”

\---

Fame is so open, so trusting, that it makes Violet a little jealous. He will tell anyone anything and Violet’s mouth is rusted shut at the corners because after all this, after all the high-heel blisters and uncontrollable relief-sobbing they’ve all experienced, he now has a trophy. It was given surely unanimously to him by all the others, labeling him as Queen Bitch of the season and he knows that editing and god-given sarcasm will only reinforce this when the show airs. He isn’t sure what matters anymore; he doesn’t know what will make the cut and what will be left to languish on the editing room floor, as it were, but he suspects the better parts of his personality will be conveniently missing, doctored, spun.

It’s fucking exhausting, and angry red welts from corset boning do not help. It has been a long day.

Fame and Violet end up next to each other in the van to the hotel and Violet isn’t listening to Fame at all. He’s talking; when is he ever not talking. Violet hasn’t said anything with more impact to it than “pass me a sandwich” since he won the award for shadiest queen and the cutting room floor is lonely. Violet digs his fingers into his thigh and Fame’s voice is the soft wash of the tide, background noise for a silent spiral. 

Fame’s long limbs spill out of the van and he offers a hand to Violet once he’s on the pavement. The weather is humid, the air is hot and thick. Violet’s hand is icy from the air conditioning of the van and Fame is saying something, surely, but all Violet hears is prayers to Saint Jude in the bubbling flow of Fame’s voice.

They walk toward the hotel door carrying their bags; the other queens stretch and take their time. Violet just wants to be inside; the L.A. heat is oppressive and the humidity is positively soupy. In the elevator, Fame clicks the button for his and Violet’s floors and says “…You know what I mean, right?”

“Shut up.” Violet’s voice is slightly ragged, eyes dull and hot, sweat beading at his hairline. He looks up at Fame, just slightly up; the bastard has an inch or two on him at best.

“Shut up,” Violet repeats, rougher, and grabs Fame’s shirt and hauls him forward, stumbling, and crushes their lips together. Fame opens his fucking mouth, but he doesn’t try to say anything, just sinks his teeth into Violet’s bottom lip and god damn if the noise Violet makes doesn’t sound like a sob.

They wrench apart harshly at Fame’s floor, paranoid about the other side of the elevator door and breathing heavily. There is no one there when the doors slide open with a gentle but ominous ping and Fame whispers come on. Violet follows.

“Finally—“ Fame drops his bag and starts as Violet shuts the hotel room door behind him.

“Shut up,” Violet hisses, pushing Fame back onto the queen bed. The sheets are plush and Fame sinks even deeper into them as Violet swings a leg over to straddle him, grinding down as he bends down for a dirty, wet kiss.

“No,” Fame twists his head away, smiling. “I will not shut up, Miss Chachki. You’re going to have to make me.”


End file.
